Saturday, 7:45 P.M.
After Dr. Marco’s stunt on Friday afternoon, I was very over surprises. So my patience was stretched thin by Saturday night, when Mom and Ella dropped me off in front of Molly’s mystery party location on the south side of Chicago.
I’d stashed my glasses in the backseat pocket of the car, and it took a second for my vision to adjust to the building: a vinyl siding–encased warehouse on an otherwise abandoned block. I closed my eyes. Stay calm. Maybe it was a hallucination, an undesirable side effect of the drops. But when I opened my eyes, there it was again.
What had Molly done? Nobody in their right mind would show up to a party at this dump, much less host one voluntarily. I squinted through my birdcage veil at the blinking neon R CK ’N OLL sign hanging crooked over the automatic glass doors. Was this a… roller rink?
The second I stepped through the doors, Nessa and Liv rolled toward me. “WHERE HAVE YOU BEEN?” they yelled in unison.
“Traffic.” The lie tasted sour on my tongue. I was supposed to be the girl who told it like it was, not the girl who almost didn’t show and then lied about it. My fingers flew to the bridge of my nose. Even though I’d taken my glasses off, I could still feel them lurking on my face.
“Can you believe this?” Liv did a shaky figure eight through a pile of stale yellow popcorn. The frayed ends of a vintage headwrap fluttered behind her like the windsocks on Mrs. Weitzman’s back porch. “So retro chic.”
I blinked at her in disbelief.
“You won’t believe Molly’s outfit,” Nessa warned me, straightening her oversized black sweater. In the musty heat of the rink, her forehead was starting to glisten more than the delicate jeweled headband crowning her pixie. “It’s like she’s got multiple personalities.” With a shrink mom and a dad who taught African-American studies at Northwestern, Nessa considered herself an expert on three things: mental illness, test taking, and getting into a good college. “Only these days, we call it dissociative identity disor—”
I tuned her out and squinted at the roller rink, which was encased with (bulletproof?) Plexiglas. The floor was painted black to look like a record and was spinning slowly around a tiny red stage, where somebody had abandoned a drum set and a keyboard. There were a few fuzzy white-haired figures bobbing around, but with four minutes until Molly’s party was supposed to start, I didn’t see anybody from seventh, middle school, or even this century. Including Quinn Wilder.
“Ohmygod.” My hand found its way to my open mouth. Had Molly taken a fall during her last skating lesson? It would explain her crush on the new kid from Seattle the other day. And… this.
“Oh, come on.” Liv pressed the rubber stopper on her skates into the carpet, then hiked up her chunky purple leg warmers. “It’s… kitschy.”
“Please. Kitschy’s just a fancy way of saying tacky and outdated.” I eyed the leg warmers warily. “On the bright side, those leg warmers totally match the vibe. Nice work.”
Liv’s jaw clenched. “They’re Rosemary’s,” she said defensively. Liv’s parents were hippies who had named all three girls after something nature-related. There were Rosemary and Autumn, and then there was Liv. She told everyone, Nessa and Mols included, that Liv was short for Olivia. I was the only one who knew the truth.
“That’s no excuse, Willow.” Or should I say: Living Willow Parrillo. No joke.
“Huh?” Now Nessa looked sweaty and confused.
Willow Parrillo tripped backward, colliding with the skate counter. “What is with you this week, Kace?”
“Oh, I don’t know.” I coughed on a lungful of stale nachos and mildewed carpet. “I was hoping to be in the middle of a salt scrub by now, but picking the gum off my new boots is just as fun, right?”
Nessa cleared her throat uncomfortably. “So, um, Mols won’t tell us what we’re doing here. It’s supposed to be a surprise.” She raked her hand through her cropped cut and nodded at the picnic table on the other side of the rink, where Molly was admiring her reflection in a giant silver birthday balloon.
I flicked my flawless flatironing job over my shoulder and stalked around the rink, kicking old candy bar wrappers out of my path. This was the worst party ever. Quinn probably wasn’t even coming.
“Heeeeeey!” Molly let her makeshift mirror float to the ceiling when she saw me. A chunk of her face-framing layers was dyed hot pink, and she’d ditched her winter-white accessories in favor of black skinny jeans, a black tank top, and metal dog tags. “So? What do you think?” she said expectantly, doing a twirl. “Are you totes surprised?”
“Avril?” I blinked. “Is that you?”
“Identity crisis,” Nessa diagnosed under her breath.
Molly was too busy stroking the hot pink highlight over her left eye to hear.
“Test. Test.” A heavy thumping sound echoed over the speakers, followed by an acoustic guitar riff. “Test.”
I recognized that voice. Slowly, I turned around to face the rink. It was all one hazy, dilapidated watercolor, but I could still make out a bright blue hair streak bobbing onstage.
“Skinny Jeans?” Now my scalp was starting to sweat. “You moved the party and dyed your hair to look like cotton candy for SKINNY JEANS?”
“FYI, his name is Zander Jarvis, not Skinny Jeans,” Molly corrected me, handing over a stinky pair of skates. “And his band plays here every Saturday night. His old band in Seattle, Hard Rock Life, was amazing. They won a Sammy, aka the Seattle version of a Grammy, for best new artist.”
“Hard Rock Life?” I echoed. “Lame.”
“Test, test.” Skinny Jeans’s voice echoed through the room. “I’m Zander Jarvis, on bass we have Kevin Cho, Nelson Lund on keyboard, and on drums, The Beat. We’re Gravity and we’ll be holding it down till close.”
Molly squealed like a squeak toy.
“Senior skate hour is wrapping up for the night, so we’re gonna send you all out with our take on a classic Sinatra jam.”
Molly hooked her thumbs over the metal-studded belt slung low around her hips and swayed to the opening cords of “My Kind of Town.”
“Okay!” I yelled over the music. I couldn’t even look at her anymore, so I just started pacing. “We’ll tell people you’re sick and you have to reschedule. Some place way better than this.” You only turn thirteen once and I wasn’t about to let my formerly sane best friend do it here.
“Too late.” Nessa said dryly, her eyes cutting to the door. “It’s time.”
“Hey, Simon.” A crisp wave of ocean-scented bodywash drowned out the heavy scent of denture cream and social suicide. The tiny hairs on the back of my neck stood in salute.
“Wilder.” I whipped around, coming nose to nose with Quinn. Jake Fields and Aaron Peterman stood behind him, but I barely noticed. The way Quinn and I called each other by our last names made me feel like we were starring in our own private crime drama rated M for mature.
“Hey.” Quinn nodded at Molly. Hair toss. “Happy birthday, or whatever.”
Molly blinked. “Thanks, Wilder.” When she last-named him, it sounded like they were on the same football team.
“And, uh… you did really good in rehearsal yesterday.”
My stomach lurched. I’d completely forgotten that my date with Dr. Marco meant Molly had finally taken my place onstage.
“It just felt, like, totally natch, you know?” Molly flicked her pink streak at the exact same time Quinn hair tossed.
While Quinn, Aaron, and Jake dumped their presents on the nearest picnic table and a fresh herd of kids from seventh shuffled toward us, I revised the game plan. Too late to take the party someplace cool. Time for damage control. I lunged for Molly, gripping the wrist without the metal-spiked bracelet.
“Hey!” She writhed under my grip. “Kacey!”
“Come on.” I yanked her around the perimeter of the rink, stumbling blindly. Liv and Nessa rolled close behind. When we got to the bench by the front doors, I plopped down. Prime real estate.
“What are you doing?” Molly huffed, rubbing her wrist.
“Giving your party the Heimlich.” I kicked off my party boots and took a nauseated breath. Then I did the unthinkable and stuffed my feet inside the skates. They were warm. And moist. But I did it for her. Ewewewewew. “Consider this the V.I.P. area,” I instructed, lacing them up tight enough to make my toes tingle. “Let everybody else come to us.”
Molly nodded slowly. “Bril.”
“Nessa, seriously, unless you take off some of those layers, you’re gonna get shinier than the Clearasil Before girl,” I advised, pulling my hair into a high ponytail. My eyesight was fuzzy, sure, but some things were impossible to miss. “And Liv?” I wrinkled my nose at the leg warmers.
“Hilar,” Molly giggled.
“And if you want any guy to realize you’re more than just a gorgeous head of”—I cringed and lifted my fingers in air quotes—“ ‘hair,’ try using complete sentences.”
Molly’s eyes widened. Liv tugged off the warmers begrudgingly while Nessa tore off her sweater, revealing a shimmery gray tank underneath.
“There. You guys look awesome. Now one of you get the guy behind the rental counter to dim the lights. The less we have to see of this dump, the better. I’ll take care of the music.” I stood up quickly, feeling slightly lightheaded. But in a good way, like I’d had one too many cupcakes. “Ready? Break.”
It was only a few filthy feet to the rink. Slowly, I slid my skates back and forth like I was on Mom’s elliptical machine, keeping my arms outstretched in front of me. When I reached the edge, I gripped the clammy, paint-chipped railing and hopped on. I made it to the stage just as Skinny Jeans was wrapping up the Sinatra tune.
“Hey!” I yelled over the crash of cymbals. “Skinny Jeans!”
“Hey. Guys and Dolls!” Skinny Jeans’s voice boomed over the mic. I felt myself being pulled onto the stage as the entire rink went silent. “Got a request?”
“Oh, I dunno,” I said casually. “Something from this century, maybe? Or is that too much to ask for Molly Knight’s thirteenth birthday?”
“Molly’s birthday, huh?” Then the blue streak swam away from me, toward the rest of the band. “Hear that, guys?”
“FIVE, SIX, SEVEN, EIGHT!” The Beat yelled, and the band launched into a hard rock version of “Happy Birthday.”
“Yeaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhh!” the crowd hooted at the exact same moment the lights dimmed and the disco ball hanging from the ceiling lit up, sending glittery silver stars cascading over the rink. Some of the guys herded onto the rink with a football. And standing right at the foot of the stage was Quinn Wilder, flashing a smile that totally outdazzled the disco ball.
“Come on!” Wilder grabbed my hand and pulled me into the rink.
“Quinn!” I had to steady myself against his boy-chest. Fine by me.
“So you skate really good,” he offered, still holding my hand.
Well. You skate really well. But I didn’t say it out loud. “Thanks!” I yelled.
“We should have a skate-off.” His breath smelled extra minty, which made sense. I learned in science class that when you start to go blind, your other senses turn superhuman. “Girls versus guys.”
“What is this, High School Musical?” I shot back.
“Scared?” His lips were no more than three inches from my ear.
I didn’t know if it was the drum vibrations thumping through the floor, the flashing disco ball, or the proximity to Quinn Wilder’s mouth, but I was suddenly positive that a girls-guys skate-off was the
Best.
Idea.
Ever.
“I’m gonna go get a cupcake!” I yelled, a sudden wave of nerves washing through my body. With any luck, what Quinn saw next was me gliding effortlessly into the darkness, instead of me clomping blindly through the rapidly filling rink toward the Plexiglas.
Molly threw her arms around me the second I reached the V.I.P. bench. “Aaron Peterman just told me my party’s, like, ten times better than his party last year!” Her gaze fell on the stage, and her lips parted slightly. “Is Zander not the most amazing?”
“I hope that’s a rhetorical question.” I straightened up, swiped two cupcakes from an open Sugar Daddy box, and handed one to Liv. “So Wilder and I are organizing a guys versus girls skate. You game?”
“How very after-school special,” Nessa teased, taking a swig of Diet Coke.
“So I had this dream last night.” Liv scooted over, and I wiggled into the seat next to her. “You and Quinn, like, started dating at the cast party!” She rolled her skates back and forth on the carpet.
“Liv. You’re not psychic.” A gaggle of girls I semi-recognized from homeroom skated slowly by our bench, looking desperate to stop. “Your dream was just common sense.”
“Or was it…” Liv narrowed her eyes mysteriously, “… The Gift?”
“I’m sensing…” Nessa closed her eyes. “… total crap.”
I burst out laughing, silvery disco stars washing over me. The stress of Dr. Marco’s office and all the arguing with Mom over the stupid glasses was finally starting to dissolve.
“We’re gonna take a quick break,” Skinny Jeans murmured into the mic. “But we’ll be back in a few, so stick around.”
“I’m asking Zander if he wants to skate.” Molly popped onto her feet.
“Wait. Skinny Jeans? Now?” I swallowed a sticky clump of icing. She could not start dating Skinny Jeans before I started dating Quinn. “No. Don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” I sighed. “ ’I just turned this party around. I need to relax before the boy-girl skate-off.”
“So don’t come.” Molly shrugged, slathering on some Burt’s Bees.
“Fine. I’ll come,” I huffed. “But only ’cause it’s your birthday.”
When we got back to the stage, Skinny Jeans didn’t even look up.
“Back already, Guys and Dolls?” He strummed a chord.
“By force,” I clarified to the blue streak. “Which is probably the only way you made it into those jeans. Here’s a hint: Maybe try the men’s department.”
The entire band went silent. Apparently, the alterna-geeks were missing the humor gene.
“Hey.” Molly elbowed past me. “I’m Molly.”
“Yeah, I remember. Happy birthday.” Another chord.
“Thanks. Your band’s amazing. I’m so glad you guys could play for my party. You’re like this wicked cross between Weezer and Radiohead.”
Wicked? Radiohead? Weezer?!
“Anyways, I was thinking maybe the rest of the band could take over for a few songs. We’re having a skate-off in a few and you should join.”
“Yeah. I’m kind of working.” Skinny Jeans shrugged.
“So take a break.” Molly cocked her head to the side.
“We kind of just did. Sorry.”
Silence.
“Wait. ‘Sorry’?” Molly sounded confused. Apparently nobody had informed the new kid that you didn’t say no to Molly Knight. Unless you were me.
I reached for the mic. “Simon Says hit the rink,” I announced to the sparkly, spinning abyss in front of me, saving Molly for the millionth time. I nodded to the band, and they launched into a new song. “Girls versus guys.”
“I can’t believe he blew you off,” I said as I hopped off the stage. “Those jeans must be cutting off blood flow to his brain.” But when I squinted at her face, all I saw was an enormous smile.
“He’s so committed to his art,” she breathed. “Hot.”
“You’re delusional,” I muttered, dragging her to the circle forming at the edge of the rink. Quinn was break dancing at the center.
“Wild-er! Wild-er! Wild-er!” the guys hooted while Quinn spun on his head.
Quinn whipped his body to standing while the circle erupted in screams and cheers. Then he did a victory lap around the circle.
Until he got to me.
“Come on, Simon!” he yelled, grabbing my wrist. “Let’s go!”
“Quinn!” I shrieked, pawing blindly at the air.
“Si-mon! Si-mon! Si-mon!” The guys switched chants as Quinn whisked me to the center of the action and spun me around. Without even trying, I was skating backward on pure adrenaline, floating through the pulsing, starry air to the screams of everyone at Marquette. It was an out-of-body experience. Some would call it nirvana. Others would call it heaven. I called it Saturday night, starring Kacey Simon and Quinn Wilder.
Quinn Wilder. Somehow I’d lost sight of him in the sea of fuzzy, chanting faces. I whirled around in search of my costar. But before I could find him, I slammed into something. Someone? And then my brain switched to slow-mo. Suddenly my skates were in the air, hovering over my head. Wait. I don’t know how to do a back flip. This was definitely not part of the Kacey-Quinn romance montage. Stop! Do-over! Rewind! Somewhere far away, somebody screamed my name. Molly?
Overhead, a giant, spinning disco ball. And then my movie cut to black.